Help Yourself
by crazymadjo
Summary: What went on in House's mind as he sat on the bathroom floor, during season six finale episode: "Help Me!"


**Help Yourself**  
><strong>by crazymadjo<strong>

**Story takes place end of season six. **

One-ten bpm. House noted his heart rate by the pain pulsing in his thigh. _Tachy. Calm down. I need to calm down._ His fingers curled into a fist, squeezing the two pills he'd been clutching for ... he glanced at his watch. _Five hours. I've been sitting here five hours. I should get up. I should (take the pills) throw the pills away, and get up._

He stayed where he was, breathing deeply. The throbbing slowed, just a little. He imagined a weakening in the femoral wall, primed to rupture. He hadn't gotten around to getting an arteriogram, to see if the damage to his muscles had really migrated, as he suspected. How ironic would it be to die tonight because he didn't take the drug that, among other things, would actually calm his pounding heart? He squeezed the pills so hard, he was amazed they didn't break. His hand shook from the force.

It had been so long since he'd had Vicodin. His system was clean. Pure. It would be like the first time, the calmness taking hold in a matter of minutes, and then the numbness. The beautiful numbness pushing the pain far, far away. His mind, clear and sharp as glass, rising above it all. Up high where he could think. Where he was right. Untouchable.

Saliva filled his mouth in a Pavlovian surge. He swallowed hard, bit his tongue, and tasted blood. He felt something he vaguely recognized as a sob rise from his chest and he forced it back down.

_They'll be sorry._ The thought bubbled up out of nowhere, and he felt a slight flicker of shame. He swatted it aside. _Hey, I'm no prize. An idiot could do better than me. But they did worse. They just had to go and do so much worse!_ Two images came to him, one after another. The first from the distant past: A young man with ridiculously floppy hair, wandering around a medical conference in a shattered haze. Wilson. The other image: a not-too-distant future vision of Cuddy, the same desperate, empty look in her eyes. Her vibrancy dimmed, her brilliant mind dulled with regret and worry after a few years with Lucas. This was no vengeance wish. House recognized his gift of analysis, the perfectly honed part of his mind that did the math, and nothing else. He knew Wilson and Cuddy better than anybody on this earth. He knew enough about their chosen mates to see their doomed future paths stretching out before them, as clear as if he was watching a movie. _Oh, yeah. They'll be sorry._

The pain in his leg surged, a shot of white hot agony. He clutched it with one hand, his other still gripping the pills. He screamed through clenched teeth, then just sat there, his entire body tensed, and waited for it to pass. He tried to clear his mind as he blinked tears from his eyes. _Breathe. Just breathe._

_She can't breathe. Not anymore._ The face of Hannah, his patient from earlier that day swam before him. Her eyes that still had so much to see of this world, so much to live for, locked on him, holding his gaze, even as her husband sobbed and called to her from just a few feet away. And he couldn't help. All he could do was stare back as those eyes lost focus, her life draining away, and try to convey something ... anything. Regret, shame, sympathy. What good were they to her, now? He couldn't save her.

_"If you can't handle that reality, pick another profession. Or finish medical school and teach."_ Another memory from years ago. Himself, addressing an assembly of fresh-faced students. The tough, hardened department head telling the innocent children just how tough it was in the real world. In real practice. _Easy to say on eight pills a day. Well, eight on a good day._ He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good day ... or pills. He ran his thumb over them, slick from sweat, their protective coating staring to melt. He imagined how bitter they'd taste on his tongue, how his throat would convulse as he forced them down without water, how the wave of tingling relief would envelop him.

His ears were ringing. _Great. Probably hypertension to go with the tachycardia._ He swallowed convulsively to even the pressure and the ringing faded. There was a slight 'tink, tink' from the bath as water dripped onto shards of broken mirror, but otherwise the night was silent. He caught himself wondering why he hadn't heard Wilson come home before he could deflect the thought. That pain hit him square in the chest, only dimly echoed by his leg. _Oh, hey, hurt feelings. Wouldn't Nolan be pleased?_ He imagined his ex-shrink looking smug, steepling his fingers as he said something like, "The fact that you miss him demonstrates that you're growing a vestigial organ in the hollow cavity where most people have a heart." _Oh, and thanks for setting me up for that fall, because being content in my own company was clearly detrimental to my mental health._

_Speaking of which ..._ he realized Foreman was probably freaking out about him to either Wilson or Cuddy by now, or would in a few more hours when he didn't show up for work. _They'll find me here when they come, sulking on the floor, or dead, if that undetected aneurysm in my leg decides to blow. When they come._ He was surprised how unsure it rang in his mind.

Neither Cuddy nor Wilson answered his emergency pages, anymore. Cuddy didn't even bother interrupting coitus with her sub-human plaything to push a button on her Blackberry for him. Yet more proof, if he needed it, of her superior intellect. _If you start saving me now, you'll never stop. Just ask Wilson._ Except ... Wilson had stopped, finally, too. It took years of concentrated effort, but he'd finally managed to drive them both away.

His stomach twisted to compliment a fresh wave from the leg, and the start of a headache to top it off. He wondered when his last meal was. _Is it still the same day since __she told me she was engaged?_ He felt nauseous. Again, tears threatened. _Pathetic. I'm pathetic._

He wanted to take the pills. He wanted to throw the pills across the room, and then destroy everything else in it. He wanted ...

_"You know what your problem is?"_ the memory of his father sliced into his reverie. _You mind, dad? I'm trying to wallow, here._ Nearly every conversation he could remember having with his father involved a laundry list of his faults. If he was lucky, that's all it involved. He wasn't often lucky. By age ten, he was too proud to run when he saw his father unloading ice from the truck. Too proud to tell his mother. Too scared to make a sound when he was dragged up the stairs by one arm, stripped, and pushed into the tub. The pain was indescribable, but he quickly learned if he just waited it out, the numbness would follow. Once he'd reached the numbness, he was okay.

_So ..._ he changed the mental subject, deftly side-stepping the impulse to swallow the pills in his hand. _They expect me to ... what? Re-wire my brain? Learn to program my persona on the fly, like Wilson? Yeah, 'cause that's worked out sooo well for him. Just ask the soon to be double-ex Mrs. "ask me about my years of therapy" Samantha Wilson. Or maybe they wished I'd done a better job with my "now say you're sorry, Gregory" assignment. Dial up that guilt to eleven, like Cuddy, running herself into the ground while her boytoy drains her bank account along with her vitality._

One-twenty bpm. His leg throbbed warning. Oddly, it felt good. Invigorating. _Adrenalin rush. Cool._ He heaved a shuddering sigh.

_Okay, so Cuddy and Wilson are screwing themselves royal, and I'm sitting here doing what, exactly? Feeling sorry for me?_ He attempted a laugh. It felt like sandpaper on his vocal chords. _Hell with this! If they want to throw their lives away, then I'm going to ... going to ... _

He saw them before him again, looking so lost. So alone. He saw Hannah, pleading. Foreman, concerned. The rest of his team, trying to learn how to find answers, to save the patients who still had a fighting chance. He saw Cuddy offering him that job and putting her perfectly-shaped ass on the line time and time again to keep him in it. He saw Wilson's resolute face as he dragged him to his father's funeral, where he saw the old bastard dead, unable to hurt him anymore. He saw both Cuddy and Wilson, worrying over him, fussing over him, watching him fake his way through rehab, sticking with him anyway, waiting patiently for him when he finally went through it for real.

He saw them both making idiotic, stupid, believable, perfectly human mistakes, looking for someone to love them. Someone they thought they could rely on.

He tightened his fist around the pills, no longer tempted to take them. He tried to remember which muscles did what, in what order, to get himself off the floor. _I can't feel my butt._

He heard footsteps and saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Relief, love, and gratitude clashed with acute embarrassment. He felt his natural gift of snark rise to the occasion, as usual.

"You gonna leap across the room and grab them out of my hand?"

End


End file.
